


josh’s awesome mix vol. 1

by physique



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Depression & Suicide Mention, F/M, Fluff, Mutual Pining (kinda), in which josh becomes an enormous pile of mush for sam and i’m literally a weeping trashcan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-20 22:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4805084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/physique/pseuds/physique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>[very slow updates; blame college]</b>
</p><p>Josh Washington likes making playlists. Josh Washington also likes Sam. Josh Washington does not like birthdays, but he figures he can make something work now that Sam’s 20th is just around the corner.</p><p>Alternatively: That one time Josh gave Sam a playlist as a birthday present because he's fake deep and romantic like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	josh’s awesome mix vol. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:
> 
> 1) *flicks light switch on and off* WELCOME TO HELL, WELCOME TO HELL, WELCOME TO SAM/JOSH HELL! 
> 
> 2) Very, very loosely based on _Playlist for the Dead_ by Michelle Falkoff. I read the first two chapters and fell in love with the concept of writing a playlist-style story so here we are. Buckle up, kids.
> 
> 3) The events at the lodge _never_ happened in this timeline but the twins are still missing/presumed dead. There will be depression and suicide mentions (as stated in the tags) from Josh but nothing extreme. Regardless, please be wary if any of those make you uncomfortable.
> 
> 4) This is pretty much an AU because Josh is actually in college and he’s getting all the help he can get to battle his depression and the loss of his sisters because he deserves better than whatever ending he got in the game.
> 
> 5) I’m a sucker for happy endings so this is basically just 20 chapters of shameless fluff based on a bunch of songs that remind me of Sam/Josh so enjoy the ride :^)
> 
> PS: Lots of meme references in the later chapters. A shit ton of Fall Out Boy. You have been warned.

Here’s the deal: Josh Washington likes making playlists. In fact, he likes making them so much that he spends _hours_ choosing the perfect songs to go with the perfect theme and photoshopping the perfect cover art to complete his perfect playlist. It’s kind of like gift shopping, he thinks. You scour every inch of the store to find the perfect gift, ransack about a million shelves to find the perfect wrapper for the occasion, tear through about a hundred swatches to find the perfect satin bow to really bring it all together. Playlist making is a lot like gift shopping: a three-step formula, may awaken the inner perfectionist in you, easier said than done.

        Josh Washington also likes Sam. In fact, he likes her so much that he spends _hours_ thinking about her perfect blonde hair and perfect green eyes and perfect pink lips. She’s kind of like summer, he thinks. She’s nice and warm, has a personality brighter than a thousand suns, the kind of scorching hot that makes you want to aggressively take your clothes off. Sam is a lot like summer: a breathtaking phenomenon, a natural mood lightener, his absolute favorite.

        Josh Washington, however, does not like birthdays. Partly because he doesn’t find the idea of celebrating another year closer to imminent death appealing, mostly because he hates gift shopping. Josh hates a lot of unreasonable things, but if there’s one thing that _really_ grinds his gears, it’s gift shopping.

        Ironically, there he is, sitting on a newly reupholstered chair in a Nike store, trying not to die of immense boredom as Chris and Ashley inspect another rack of women’s climbing shoes at aisle three to find the last item on their list for Sam’s upcoming birthday.

        Josh sighs, eyeing the Adidas paper bag Ashley had handed to him before joining Chris on his shoe hunt roughly ten minutes ago. Inside it is a new burgundy jacket and a pair of matching yoga pants in Sam’s size, and he can already imagine how nice her butt would look in them when he joins her in another one of her rock climbing escapades. He’s always been a sucker for athletic girls in yoga pants.

        (And by athletic girls in yoga pants he means the one with blonde hair and green eyes who goes by the name Sam.)

        “Any time within this century, lovebirds,” Josh whines, his knee bouncing up and down impatiently. “I’m collecting dust over here.”

        “Oh, shut up,” Ashley replies, comparing a turquoise shoe with a periwinkle one. “You could’ve just said no when we asked if you wanted to come along, you know.”

        “And what? Miss a golden opportunity to cockblock you and Christopher over here? Didn’t think so,” he jests. “I had nothing better to do anyway. The ‘rents are at work and your boy’s lonely.”

        “Shit,” Chris hisses as he smacks his forehead. “I did _not_ think this through. You guys don’t happen to know what Sam’s shoe size is, right?”

        “Well, Cochise, you’re in luck,” Josh exclaims smugly. “Our good friend Samantha’s a size 37. You’re welcome.”

         The smirk that slips onto Ashley’s lips is automatic. “And you say you’re not obsessed.”

        “Hey, there’s a difference between being well-informed and obsessed, thank you very much,” he says, tone defensive. “Don’t get it twisted, Ashley.”

        “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Joshy,” she singsongs, picking up a pair of gray shoes with red accents. “Ooh, I like this one. Chris, what do you think?”

        Josh tunes them out and picks up from where left off, elbow propped up on his knee, chin cradled in the bowl of his palm as his friends examine yet another pair of kicks that looks just about the same as the hundred others in the store. He waits for the salesperson to return with a fresh box of gray and red climbing shoes in size 37 and tries not to strangle himself when Chris takes _forever_ to check out his single purchase. He also tries not to throttle Ashley with a shopping cart when she keeps mentioning how tight the yoga pants she bought for Sam are, and he attempts to pass off the sudden redness in his cheeks as an allergic reaction even though President Barack Obama himself knows Josh Washington has no known medical allergies that makes him blush like an innocent 12-year-old boy who just discovered the wonderful world of porn.

        “Cut it out,” Josh pleads, feeling his face heat up even more when Ashley waggles her eyebrows suggestively.

        She laughs. “Come on, Josh, everybody and their mother knows you have a _huge_ crush on Sam,” she says. “You might as well have hashtag ‘Hoe 4 Sam’ tattooed on your forehead. It’s _that_ obvious.”

        “What’s obvious?” Chris joins in, shoving some loose change into his pocket. “My dazzling charm and personality or Josh being a _total_ slut for Sam?”

        “Say it a little louder, Chris, I don’t think China heard you,” Josh grumbles, ignoring their laughter as they walk out the store. “As if you’re not a total slut for Ashley.”

        “Hey, at least I’m man enough to admit that I am, in fact, always a slut for Ashley,” he announces proudly. Ashley reaches up on her toes to peck him on the cheek.

        “Get a room,” he howls, feigning disgust as Ashley punches him on the shoulder lightly.

        “But all jokes aside,” Chris says as they round a corner and come face-to-face with a record store, “have you decided on something yet? Her birthday’s in two days, you know. I know it sounds like a lot of time but it took me and Ash an entire week to think of what we’re gonna get her.”

        “Thank God she mentioned something about shopping for new climbing gear,” Ash adds, pausing in front of the store’s window. An assortment of CDs and vinyls are stacked and displayed on a table, bearing various names and titles – a limited edition Queen vinyl, Beyoncé’s self-titled album, a crystal case CD from a band called twenty one pilots, _Cry Baby_ by Melanie Martinez, the deluxe version of Frank Ocean’s _Channel Orange_. “Hey, why don’t you buy her a few CDs? Give her a reason to listen something else other than her boring classical music.”

        Josh pauses, pondering on her suggestion. It’s not a bad idea, he thinks. He steps forward and examines the other available albums on display, taking note of different genres he thinks Sam might like (pop, indie, a twist of pop rock) and wrinkling his nose at the ones she obviously wouldn’t even last two seconds listening to (country, EDM, definitely not hardcore death metal). “That’s actually not a bad idea,” he says before walking past her and into the shoebox-sized shop.

        The record store looks just like any other record store in the history of record stores: cramped, dusty, and brightly lit with elevator music blasting from the speakers. Posters are plastered on all four walls, covering every inch with pictures of musicians from different eras. Bolted to the ceiling is a small disco ball that spins leisurely, primary and secondary colors weakly dancing in its wake. Racks upon racks of CDs and vinyls are arranged in six columns, sorted according to genre, year, and artist. Josh is getting a headache from just thinking about organizing a thousand albums every single day, making sure Tears for Fears is filed under T and _From Under the Cork Tree_ is sandwiched between _Take This to Your Grave_ and _Infinity on High_ in the Fall Out Boy section and a Lady Gaga album isn’t marinating in the gospel music division.

        “Not too shabby,” Chris comments as he follows Ashley inside, thumbing through the A-D collection. “They’ve got enough songs to, like, supply your playlist making business.”

        He’s about to make an offhand comment about the D section like a true dick joke master when Josh suddenly snaps his fingers, a look of enlightenment breaking across his features.

        “Cochise, you’re a fuckin’ genius!” Josh shouts. Ashley nearly topples the entire I-L table over in surprise and _oh my god, Josh, you scared the shit out of me, I think I literally just pissed myself, I need to find the nearest restroom_. One of the employees perched on a footstool falls and lands on his ass, a hundred or so copies of All Time Low’s _Future Hearts_ raining down on him like a pimp making it rain in a strip club.

        Chris doesn’t even know where to begin when he sees Josh dash out of the store with a speed that can rival Usain Bolt’s.

        “Hey, Chris, a little help over here?” Ashley hints, gesturing to the employee who’s scrambling to pick up about a million CDs from the floor.

        Chris sighs.

* * *

 Josh still doesn’t like birthdays.

        But he still likes making playlists (and Sam) very much, so he tells himself to suck it up as he boots up his computer half an hour after ditching Chris and Ashley. He pulls a moleskine notebook and a two-inch stub of wood and lead (aka a sorry excuse for a pencil) out of his backpack, flipping to a fresh page and smoothing out the creases as he sinks into his swivel chair. He’s got about less than 48 hours to pull this off, and he’s not sure whether he should be bursting with joy or shitting his pants at the prospect of giving Sam a _freakin’ playlist_ for her 20th birthday.

        “You got this,” he says to himself, channeling his inner hype man as he gets down to business.

* * *

 “Hey, Matt, it’s Josh. You busy?”  

        “Yeah but—”

        “Nicki Minaj or Iggy Azalea?”

        “What?”

        “Nicki or Iggy?”

        “Um, Iggy?”

        “Cool, thanks, bye.”

        Josh deletes Iggy’s discography from his hard drive.

* * *

 His trashcan is almost full.

        “Bull to the shit,” Josh sings as he throws a ball of crumpled paper into the bin – _again_. He sharpens another #2 pencil. Not even the _Pacific_ _Rim_ theme song is doing him any favors as the clock strikes eight (or nine; he’s not really sure he wants a firm grasp on the concept of time right now).  

        He yawns, stretches his limbs out, hears his bones crack in several places.

        He’s sleepy.

        “Fuck nuggets,” he mutters, dropping his head into folded arms on the table. He yawns again. His #2 pencil rolls off the desk and lands on the carpeted floor with a dull thud.

        _Fifteen minutes_ , he promises. _Fifteen minutes then I’ll get back to work._

* * *

 “Josh?”

        “Mike, man, could you do me a solid and, I dunno, screenshot your top ten most played songs?”

        “What for?”

        “For science.”

        Mike hangs up.

        Josh shrugs, wiping the remaining drool residue off his desk with a blanket.

* * *

It’s one in the morning when he finally touches his dinner.

        His mom’s never been the best at cooking, but she can make a mean lasagna. It’s gone cold from sitting out too long, obviously, but Josh doesn’t mind. At least it still tastes like what it's supposed to taste like.

        The only thing Josh can think of as he slices through layers of pasta and tomato sauce with a fork is Sam. Sam likes pasta. Sam would take a bullet and die for pasta.

        Consequently, Josh likes Sam. Josh would take a bullet and die for Sam. Josh thinks Sam is like pasta: too beautiful for this world, too pure.

        He snorts as he finishes the last of his dinner and picks up his trusty #2 pencil again, crashing out a few animal puns on his notebook.

        _Happy PURR-thday_ , _Happy Birthday to One Cool CHICK_ , and _Have an OTTERly Wonderful Birthday_ are way below his quality pun standards anyway.

* * *

 “It’s two in the goddamn morning, Joshua.”

        “Good morning to you too, sweetheart.”

        “Why the hell are you still awake?”

        “Don’t sound too surprised, Cochise. Anyway, let’s assume you’re Sam for a moment – minus the obvious good looks and level of hotness, of course.”

        Pause. “Are you seriously that desperate to masturba—”

        “Oh my god, Chris, I’m not gonna ask you to pretend to be Sam so I can jack off to your sexually arousing monologue.”

        “Then why are you calling me at the ass crack of dawn?”

        “Okay, so, remember the playlist...”

* * *

He’s running on six cups of coffee and three hours of proper sleep when the sun begins to peek out the mountains.

         Surprisingly, Josh isn’t the least bit exhausted. On the contrary, he feels like he can run and break through a brick wall and somersault straight into the depths of the Grand Canyon and not die in the process. He blames it on his caffeine consumption (and he doesn’t even _like_ coffee).

         He stretches his arms over his head, joints popping and muscles rippling under the thin fabric of his _Pulp Fiction_ t-shirt. He stares at the crinkled scrap of paper on his desk, vandalized with random doodles and notes and a preliminary list of songs he thinks are worthy enough to caress Sam’s eardrums. Then he grabs and shreds it into a tiny million pieces because _seriously, Josh, you’re gonna let her listen to that garbage?_   

         “Don’t over think it, dude,” Chris had advised last night (this morning, whatever) in between yawns. “I know you want this playlist to be perfect but I’m pretty sure Sammy would appreciate a two-hour loop of _Friday_ by Rebecca Black as long as it’s from you since she’s sorta, maybe, kinda _so_ into you but you’re sorta, maybe, kinda _too_ dense of a wimp and blinded by your conflicting feelings to notice.”  

         Josh hung up two seconds later with burning cheeks and a heart-on (read: a variation of hard-on; a heart boner; an affection erection).  

         He sweeps the shredded paper straight into the trashcan, knotting the black bag close and yanking it out, throwing it over his shoulder in a Santa-esque fashion. Taking out the trash at five in the morning might not be such a bad idea. He’s in dire need of fresh air and a change of scenery anyway.  

         So Josh pushes his bedroom door open, a garbage bag on his back and the remnants of sleep blurring his vision. A Frank Sinatra song plays softly as he descends the staircase, and he rolls his eyes at the sight of his dad’s antique gramophone in action. Bob Washington never leaves his humble abode without playing some good ol’ Frank Sinatra after all.  

         Josh considers him. Frank Sinatra. Voice suave and smooth as velvet, lyrics that really tug at your heartstrings, emotional and romantic. 

         He gags.  

         Maybe he should just ditch the stupid playlist and give her a puppy since she always gushes about wanting to adopt one from the local animal shelter like the animal-loving nerd that she is. 

         Josh unlocks the front door and shivers as the cold August air harshly nips at his bare skin, causing goose pimples to relentlessly sprout on his arms. He’s barefooted and in his boxers and his hair is mussed in several inconvenient patches. Honestly, he doesn’t look _that_ bad, but it’s still kind of embarrassing, standing in the middle of a sidewalk and lugging a garbage bag around in nothing but a flimsy top and _Finding Nemo_ boxers (a gracious Christmas present from Mike). They’re rather comfortable, his boxers. Sometimes he even counts the number of Nemos printed on the breezy cotton fabric to pass the time when he’s seated on The Throne to do his business.  

         He’s trying to recall just how many Nemos are surrounding his crotch and ass when he hears quick, heavy footfalls pound against the pavement, and then— 

         “Cute boxers you got there, Washington.”  

          _Fuck me._

         “Well, I dress to impress,” Josh jokes, propping his left hand on his waist, bending his right knee slightly to nail his pose. “Gotta keep it kid-friendly for the neighbors, too.” 

         “Always the gentleman, I see,” Sam chides. A loose lock of blonde hair falls into her eyes and it’s taking Josh all his self-control not to tuck it behind her ear like the leading man always does in one of those cheesy romcoms Hannah and Beth always forced him to watch with them and Sam on Friday nights. Josh didn’t really mind. Friday romcom nights gave him an excuse to keep Sam company since the twins literally wouldn’t shut up and kept talking over the movie anyway. He still thinks they did it on purpose — Josh will never forget the subtle wink Beth shot him when Sam wasn’t looking and his arm was draped a little too close to her shoulders on the couch while they were watching _The Notebook_. 

         He clears his throat. “What brings you here this early in the morning, my fair lady?” 

         “Oh, you know, the usual morning jog.” 

         “And here I thought you ran all the way here just to see my beautiful face at five in the morning.” 

         “Hardy har,” Sam jeers sarcastically, crossing her arms over her chest. Josh swallows when he sees her neon green sports bra peek out of her tank top. “Well, unlike you, _some_ people actually have to work out to keep themselves in shape.”  

         He smirks. “Sammy, if you want a private workout session with me, all you have to do is ask,” he teases. 

         Josh is caught off guard when Sam does what Sam usually doesn’t do: she blushes. 

         He’d be lying if he says seeing Sam blush because of him doesn’t make him feel a little powerful.  

         He laughs at her. She glares at him. He laughs even harder.  

         “You’ll wake your entire neighborhood at this rate if you don’t _shut up_ ,” Sam scolds through barred teeth. She’s still blushing. His stomach is starting to hurt from laughing. “Josh—”  

         “I–but you–your face,” he wheezes. There are tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. “I-I’ll–I’ll stop, I promise, just–you should see how red your face is right now—”  

         “I’ve been jogging for the past twenty minutes, you big dummy, of course my face is red,” she defends, chest heaving up and down in quick and labored successions. A thin sheen of sweat coats her forehead and it’s glistening under the sunlight and Josh is trying to comprehend _how the fuck_ she’s using _perspiration_ to her advantage by _glowing_ in it. Sweat is supposed to look gross on people, not make them look colossally more attractive than usual.

         Josh is getting a headache from just thinking about how hot Sam is with flushed cheeks and sweat-slicked skin as she runs in her sports bra and (sacred) yoga pants and how fucking stupid he looks in his Nemo boxers. 

          _Fuck this stupid clownfish._

         “You’re–you’re so fucking cute,” he heaves. The garbage bag slips from his fingertips and lands on the pavement with a slight rustle. “God, Sammy, you should blush more often. Pink’s a good color on you.” 

         “Thanks for the suggestion,” she says monotonously, but Josh knows she’s not mad. He can see the corner of her mouth twitch into a tiny, suppressed smile. “But I gotta go. I’m already three minutes behind my track record because of you. You’re such a distraction in your Nemo boxers, you know that?” 

         “I aim to please,” he says cockily. “Besides, it’s only a distraction if you let it distract you.” 

         She rolls her eyes. “Oh, and tomorrow—” 

         “Yeah, yeah, I know.” He juts his bottom lip out in a pout. “I’ll wear something decent.”  

         “There will be sushi,” she sings. He scowls. He _loves_ sushi.

         “I’ll think about it,” he deadpans.  

         Sam sticks her tongue out at him, then she’s off, her ponytail violently swishing behind her in a rhythmic, almost trance-like lull. 

         Josh gnaws on his bottom lip, contemplates for a moment, chooses his words carefully. 

         “Sammy, wait.”  

         She skids to a stop, turns around and looks at him with raised eyebrows.

         “What’s your favorite song?” he asks slowly. “The song that, uh, brings back really good memories every time you listen to it.”  

         She cocks her head to one side, squints her eyes ever so slightly. “That’s a tough question. Why do you ask?” 

         He shrugs. “Just curious.” 

         He watches her think for a moment, and he swears he can hear the gears cranking and turning in her head as she stands 12 feet away from him. He’s not expecting much. She’ll probably name some piano concerto piece by Bach or Beethoven and he’ll end up ditching the stupid playlist and buying her a gift basket instead.  

         “Remember prom?”

         “Kinda.” _Of fucking course. Not like I spent the rest of the night gawking over you and getting jealous when some random fuckboys sans Chris and Mike asked you to dance or anything._

         “That song we danced to,” she recalls shyly. “You insisted on being my last dance since Hannah beat you to first. You waited for the DJ to play the last song. I don’t know if you still remember it, but that song brings back amazing memories and I really, _really_ gotta go because I have a track record to beat so see you tomorrow?” 

          “Tomorrow,” he repeats, ignoring the gigantic whirlpool that’s building up in the pits of his stomach. “Run safe, Sammy.”  

         “You betcha,” she exclaims with a wink before propelling herself forward again.  

         Josh waits until she completely disappears in the horizon before pumping his fist in the air, revelling in the fast-paced thrumming of his chest as he bins the garbage bag and sprints back to the safety of his bedroom. He heads back to his desk and flips his notebook open again. He ignores his #2 pencil and grabs a pen instead.  

         With Frank Sinatra serenading him through his open door, Josh begins listing down 20 songs beside 20 seemingly random combinations of months and years.  

         He finishes in precisely six minutes and 12 seconds. On top of the page sits **JOSH’S AWESOME MIX VOL. 1 (FOR SAMMY)** in big, bold letters. He completely ripped off Star-Lord’s mixtape title from _Guardians of the Galaxy_ and none of the songs in his playlist fall under the same genre or theme or whatever classifications exist out there but he doesn’t really care.  

         Josh Washington does not like breaking his own rules, but he reminds himself over and over that he likes Sam, and maybe that’s the only excuse he needs to disobey the law and tether dangerously close to oblivion sometimes.

* * *

“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!”  

         “Jesus Christ, Josh, it’s 6AM.”  

         “But Chris,” Josh heaves dramatically, falling back onto his bed, “I’m in love. And I finished the playlist. And I’m coming over in, like, thirty minutes because I need all your tech stuff to pull this off so get dressed and brush your teeth because I’m not looking forward to seeing your junk hangin’ out and smelling your morning breath.” 

         Chris tells him to fuck off. 

         Josh laughs and hangs up, snatching his car keys and list from the desk before (literally) skipping down the stairs and out the front door with a shit-eating grin on his face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure when the next chapter will be written and published since I've got finals coming up but I hope you enjoyed this lil prologue.


End file.
